A Miserable Birthday to You
by grumkinsnark
Summary: Castiel isn't entirely sure why humans celebrate the anniversaries of one another's birth, nor why Sam and Dean are so damn stubborn, but he's seen that a beer and an eye roll tend to alleviate any situation. Well, almost any situation.


So, here's the thing. I meant for this to be a lighthearted, short fic, and it turned into a long, angsty one with a dash of potential humor. Also, I'm not too sure on my Cas voice, so please offer suggestions or critiques or what have you.

* * *

**A Miserable Birthday to You**

* * *

Almost a year.

Three hundred and fifty-five days.

It's been fifty weeks since Sam last saw Dean, fifty weeks since Sam watched Dean make good on his promise, live that normal, apple pie life that Sam, once upon a time, had so desperately desired.

More than once, Sam had very nearly gone back, if nothing else than just to check up on his brother (never mind the times when he wanted so badly to knock and tell Dean he's _alive_). Christmas at least, he'd figured, he might as well drop by, look in through the window. And he'd been halfway to Illinois in the shitty car he'd bought from his meager salary as a bartender in an equally shitty Pennsylvanian town before he changed his mind and drove back. He was pretty sure Dean would like to see him, know he's _alive_, and he's reasonably positive that Lisa would be willing to let him stay—for a while anyway—but…it was _Christmas_.

To his recollection, they'd never had a happy Christmas, just ones filled with presents meant for others, and ones over which the inevitability of a demon deal coming to fruition loomed, and ones completely forgotten because of that little thing called the Apocalypse. Sam didn't want _another_ one to be tense and fraught with complicated explanations. He wanted Dean to have the best shot at a _normal_ Christmas. At putting up a tree, decorating it with ornaments and bright lights, reaching up to put a star at the top, wrapping up gifts and putting them underneath the branches, sitting by the fire with a woman next to him who accepts him for who he is, faults and all.

So he didn't drop by. He spent the night being the only one in a greasy spoon diner, staring at his plate and half-listening to the carols coming out of the jukebox. The matronly waitress kept eyeing him as she ran a damp rag over the peeling countertops, the cook long gone by now. Finally she'd come to his table, put her hand on his shoulder and looked down at him concernedly.

"Sir?" she'd asked hesitantly, putting her rag on the tabletop. "Surely you want to spend Christmas with your family?"

He met her eyes, and she, to her credit, didn't recoil from the pure desolation in them. "No," he answered brusquely, and got out of the booth. He threw down a twenty, and as he walked out of the diner, muttered a halfhearted, "Merry Christmas."

He'd passed out drunk on the raggedy couch in his room above the bar, a near-empty bottle of Jack Daniels loose in his hand.

* * *

When January twenty-fourth came around, he'd found himself in a minimart looking through the aisles for a crappy present that he could send to Dean. In the very back of the store, amongst the half-off holiday leftovers, he found—of all things—a beer can wreath. It wasn't Christmas, but, Sam'd thought, it was perfect. He'd mailed it off to Cicero and was back in his room before he realized what he'd done.

He drove to Indiana and waited outside Lisa's house to intercept the present—for the same reasons why he didn't send anything at Christmas—but somehow, he'd missed the mail carrier, and before he could run up and do anything, the man had rung Lisa's doorbell. She'd answered, looked perplexed at the half-assed wrapping job (with a sticker on top from the post office saying they repackaged it), and inspected the writing.

_To Dean_

was all it said, and Lisa frowned for a few moments before her expression slackened into one of wary realization. Dean had made friends of sorts, but they didn't know him as Dean Winchester; for Lisa's safety, he'd come up with as new an identity as he could. He was either "The Dean" (a nickname he'd tried his hardest to shake), or Dean Campbell (give him a break, choosing his mother's maiden name was as creative as he could get, given…given the circumstances). He'd become a mechanic, he'd said he was born in South Dakota and that his birthday was September the twenty-ninth (Adam's birthday, for he felt guilty that he'd let _both_ his brothers die; and he needed to pay _some_ remembrance to him).

No one but Lisa—not even Ben—knew that his birthday was January twenty-fourth.

She'd looked around, but Sam didn't get to be almost thirty without learning basic stakeout skills. She'd looked torn, glanced behind her to where Dean was sitting at the kitchen table helping Ben with some schoolwork. She'd walked inside, very nearly throwing the package away, but then she sighed and walked upstairs. Through the second story window, Sam watched as she hid it in her side of the closet (Dean had messed once with her side and decided very quickly that he never would again).

It hurt that Dean would never see it, but Sam also admired Lisa. He doubted she _completely_ believed it was from him, but on some level she did, and she, same as Sam, wanted to protect Dean from as much pain as she could. So he left to go back to Pennsylvania, never seeing Lisa periodically take out the present and look at it, never unwrapping it, just looking at the handwriting and wondering herself why Sam never came to the door. Wishing he would.

* * *

Sam almost forgets his own birthday once May hits, would have forgotten it completely if not for one thing.

He ambles into his room at three in the morning after a very long day (and night) of work, ready to collapse onto his bed and sleep till the afternoon. When he closes the door and flips on the light, however, he lets out an involuntary, startled yelp.

Which then turns to an odd conglomeration of shock, anger, and caution as he takes in the very familiar form. Somewhat _unwelcome_ form, too.

"C-Cas?" he asks stiffly, tossing his jacket somewhere off to his right. "What are you—what the hell are you doing here?"

Castiel stands up from where he'd been sitting straight as a board on Sam's bed, and rubs his neck awkwardly. "I, uh…"

If Sam weren't so jaded, he would have laughed. Apparently after over two years, the angel still hadn't mastered any form of normal human behavior. "_What_?" Sam asks again, shucking off his shoes and moving past Castiel to take a seat on his drooping mattress.

"I…I have a gift for you," says Castiel, and at the words, Sam looks up, both bemused and amused.

"Come again?"

With determination, Castiel holds out a six-pack of beer that Sam, in his bleary state, hadn't spotted before. "A Miserable Birthday to you," he says, clearly thinking the felicitation is meant to be correlated with one's mood.

This time, Sam can't help but burst out into a short fit of laughter, deciding not to correct Castiel on that it should be "_Happy_ Birthday." Castiel frowns, unsatisfied by the reaction. "Cas, it's not my—" Sam stops, looking at his watch. "Oh," he amends, discovering that it is, in fact, May second. "I guess it is."

"I noticed you have not made communication with your brother," says Castiel. He sighs and sets the beer (extremely crappy beer, Sam notes) on the nightstand. "You have not had the best of luck when you are separated. I wanted to be certain that—"

"I wasn't planning on resurrecting Lucifer?" Sam deadpans, grabbing a bottle out of the holder and popping the top off. As he'd suspected, it tastes _godawful_, but there comes a certain point when alcohol is alcohol.

Castiel wavers, like he's not sure if Sam is joking or not, but then his face evens out. "Ha-ha," Castiel says—not really laughs, but _says_.

"So, um," Sam says after a couple seconds of tight silence, "what's with the birthday thing? I mean, how'd you know? And how'd you _find_ me? Don't I still have those sigil things?"

"When God brought me back, he gave me a couple improvements," Cas replies. Sam's eyebrows raise at the God mention, but he doesn't remark. "One of which, because He felt that after all this time I should still have the capabilities of watching out for you and your brother, is being able to discern your location. You are still guarded from other angels, however."

"Oh, well, that's…good…" Sam trails, trying not to think of how, really, it's kind of creepy.

Castiel scrunches up his face as he continues, "And I heard humans celebrate the anniversaries of another's birth. I cannot fathom why, but…"

Sam smiles. It doesn't reach his eyes, but his attempt is genuine. He's also rather curious as to how Castiel became privy to birthday celebrations, but thinks that's another story for another day. Right now, he's more preoccupied with, "So you…got me beer?"

"You and your brother imbibe in appalling amounts of alcohol," Castiel says. "I thought it was an adequate gift."

Sam shrugs. "Can't argue with that," he answers, taking another sip and cringing.

"Have you…I mean, is Dean…have you seen him?" Sam asks, looking down into the beer bottle at the frothy liquid.

Castiel stares at him in that unnervingly scrutinizing way of his and then answers, "I have." Sam looks up at him. "But I have not spoken with him."

Sam's face is question enough.

"He has not been threatened as yet," says Castiel. "And the woman with whom he resides is taking sufficient care of him."

Sam nods slowly, unsure of what to say.

Silence reigns again, and it's minutes before Sam finally exhales and grabs another beer out of the container. He holds it out to the still-standing Castiel, and then gestures with his head to the frail chair at its more-or-less-matching desk.

"Have a beer," Sam says. "I'm guessing you stole it; might as well 'imbibe.'" Castiel takes a beat, and then stiffly drags over the chair and sits across from Sam, taking the beer. "Cheers," Sam says, clinking his bottle with Castiel's. The angel isn't certain what the clinking is for, but goes with it, and takes a drink.

All six beers are gone by the time five a.m. comes to call, Sam having downed four of them. He feels himself falling asleep rapidly, but can't be bothered to undress or slip under the sheets.

"Hey, thanks, Cas," he mumbles, turning over on his side and instantly beginning to snore.

Castiel doesn't quite know why a smile creeps onto his face, but he doesn't feel particularly upset, so infers it as a good sign. He takes another second to watch Sam, and then stands up and turns out the light (evidently humans prefer the dark for sleeping).

Truthfully, he'd been lying to Sam. Okay, not _lying_, per se, but leaving out certain facts. For instance, how he'd known it was Sam's birthday in the first place. He'd made it sound as if he'd only checked in on Dean once or twice, but he in fact did it on a fairly regular basis. Not just to make sure Dean wasn't endangering himself, but to make sure Lisa and Ben weren't being endangered either.

He wouldn't term himself sentimental, but he has grown significantly less heartless than when he'd first interacted with Dean. Of course, he still thinks Dean would be safer if he weren't needing to be responsible for a woman and child, but it's obvious even to him that Dean isn't intending to bail anytime soon. So it's really because of those two that he inconspicuously observes the Braeden house now and again.

Of course, his latest visit—the one immediately preceding his paltry raid of a liquor store—was different than the others.

_It's late, Dean doesn't know how late exactly, but he knows it's late, and he's being especially noiseless because he knows Lisa and Ben are in bed already, and they both have to get up early, but Dean hadn't been able to rest no matter how hard he tried._

_So he disentangled his arms from Lisa's waist and stepped downstairs into the kitchen, grabbing himself a beer and slowly sitting in a chair at the table. The beer is cold, and it's a refreshingly warm night. To anyone else, it's just a normal, if not better than normal, Monday. To Dean, it's a heart-shattering memory of what he's lost. _Who_ he's lost._

_He doesn't notice Lisa come in until she runs her fingers through his hair. "Dean?" she asks quietly, her face tired but concerned. "What are you doing up?"_

_He glances at her, and then back down at the wood grain of the table. "It's…it's Sammy's birthday," he murmurs._

_Lisa's features contort, and she sits down next to him. "Dean," she says, but can't think of anything else after that. She knows there's nothing in the world she _can_ say to make things even remotely better for him._

"_He's twenty-eight," Dean says softly, robotically. "And he's celebrating his birthday in fucking _Hell_."_

_Lisa bites her lip, wishing she could take away his hurt, but knowing only Dean can do that. Then suddenly he laughs; it's with the opposite of humor, more of a harsh cackle. "What?" she inquires._

_Dean takes a long drag of his beer, and then looks at her, his green eyes swimming with both memory and despair. "He's actually a hundred and forty," he chuckles. "Hell being…"_

_He doesn't finish the sentence, but Lisa knows. When he'd confessed his own time in Hell to her, what he'd done, he'd broken the astounding news that a month on Earth is actually ten years in Hell. And though neither she nor Dean exactly knows what would be happening to Sam, they both have the gut-wrenching feeling that it's a thousand times worse than what Dean went through._

"_Dean," Lisa starts, clearing her throat and gently pulling the beer out of Dean's hand, "come back to bed. S-Sam wouldn't want you to do this to yourself."_

_Dean's lip curls as he snaps, "You don't even _know_ Sam."_

_Lisa flinches, and coldly stands up, giving Dean a stiff nod. "Fine," she says. "If that's the way you want to do this, fine. You want to lash out at me, think I don't give a shit that your brother—who helped save my son's life, if you'll remember—is in Hell, fine. But you're going to do it far away from me, and far away from Ben."_

_Dean's gaze turns to surprise. "What?"_

"_Either you stop treating me like _I'm _the one who put Sam in Hell and start realizing that I care—I care a lot—about what happened to him, or you leave. It's up to you. I'm going to bed. If you feel like giving up on alienating me and stop pretending like I know nothing about your world, then I'll see you in the morning and we'll make a cake for Sam, celebrate his birthday. Ben'll enjoy it. If you don't, then I expect you and all your crap to be gone by the time I get Ben up for school."_

_She lets her words sink in for a moment, and then turns and walks back upstairs to bed. Dean stares after her for a long time, and then lets his head clunk on the table. "I miss you, Sammy."_

Hours after he leaves Sam to his inebriated unconsciousness and looks back in on the Braeden house, Castiel's both surprised and not that Ben is stirring ingredients in a bowl, Lisa reading off instructions from a book, and Dean is sitting at the kitchen counter nursing another beer. His face isn't _happy_ exactly, but it's a lot less miserable than when last Castiel had seen him.

"Why are we making a cake, Mom?" Ben asks, tasting a fingerful of batter.

Lisa gently slaps his hand and glances quickly at Dean. "It's Dean's brother's birthday today, Ben," she explains. "You remember Sam, right?"

Ben laughs. "Yeah. He's super tall." Lisa smiles. "Wait, where is Sasquatch?"

"He's…away, sweetie," Lisa answers. "But you know what? I bet he'd love the cake you're making. It looks great."

"Dean?" Ben asks. "Do you think Sam would like it?"

Dean looks at Ben, who has flour on his nose and cake batter decorating his shirt, and then at Lisa, who manages to look encouraging, stern, worried, and placid all at the same time.

Then he smiles, thinking of how once when they were younger he'd tried to bake Sam a birthday cake himself. It'd turned out horribly, but Sam had eaten exactly half of the entire thing, and let Dean have the rest, ate it as if it were made by Betty Crocker herself.

Dean's smile remains as he gets off the bar stool and walks around the counter to put a hand on Ben's head. "Yeah, buddy," he says. "I think he would."

Castiel sighs, wondering why he still marvels at how sacrificing the Winchesters are. Sam is holed up in a Podunk town in rural Pennsylvania, and Dean's living out the promise Sam had had him swear, and they're both in various shades of melancholy, and yet their stubborn streak wins out.

He also wonders if he should let Dean know that his brother's alive; for that matter, it's been a question he's brought up to himself multiple times. But he never does. Because, despite the fact that he'd always seen—at least in part—Sam as the Boy with Demon Blood, the sacrifice that Sam had made was the ultimate one, the one that saved the world. And if Sam doesn't want his brother to know he's no longer in the Pit, well. It isn't Castiel's job to betray that.

(Though, still, he may indulge in that eye-rolling gesture that he'd seen both Sam and Dean do on many an occasion. They always seem to feel accomplished after doing so.)


End file.
